


not a metaphor of what we really could be

by mazily



Category: Last Tango In Halifax
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 19:29:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14479605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazily/pseuds/mazily
Summary: So Caroline can kiss.Or: five times Gillian and Caroline are caught out and one time Gillian catches herself.





	not a metaphor of what we really could be

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Luna for the once, twice, thrice-over. 
> 
> Title via Hayley Kiyoko. Set in the vaguest of timeframes.

1.

So Caroline can _kiss_. Finger slipping between Gillian's trousers and the bare skin of her hip, thigh between Gillian's legs, and herself slouching against the wall while Gillian holds them both up. The damp is everywhere. Rain coming down in buckets outside, familiar and comforting while Caz reaches up Gillian's shirt. Presses her palm against the small of Gillian's back.

Gillian turns her head to the side. Inhales, catches her breath. Caz smirks, the bint, traces spirals with the tip of her fingernail. "Fuck," Gillian says. Vowels drawn out, _fuuuuuuh_ , because this is not what she expected.

"Well, yes," Caz says. Her smile--

"You look mad, bad, and dangerous to know," Gillian says.

Caz's face goes red, and Gillian reaches up to touch her face. Worried, for a second, until she starts to laugh. Snorts. And then Gillian joins in--how can she not?--and they're holding each other up, them and the bloody wall, and laughing and laughing like bloody fools.

"Gillian? Izzat--"

Oh bloody hell. Caz pushes away from the wall, and Gillian stumbles back a few steps.

"Oh, Harry, I didn't see you," Gillian lies.

"I'll just go freshen up a bit while you two catch up," Caz says. Full Head Teacher mode, there, posh bitch you don't want to mess with. Like she's holding her nose just to be in the same room with them.

"Ta," Gillian says. Two fingers up behind her back, and Caz squints so Gillian knows she can see. She disappears back toward the loos. Gillian looks Harry in the eye, and says, "If you say one word to my father about seeing me and Caz--which, she bloody bet me a pint I'd do a runner if she tried it on, so it weren't like that--and he has another fu-, fucking heart attack, I will-"

Harry laughs. Gillian sighs.

"You've got lippy all smudged," he says, gesturing at her face.

"Shit," she says. Bangs her head back against the wall.

 

2.

"Right, dare you," Gillian says. Because she's angry and pissed and Caz is being a bitch and and _fuck it,_ that's why.

Caz knocks back another shot. Glares at Gillian from beneath her fringe, cheeks flushed and teeth ready to snarl and Gillian busies herself with pouring another round before she does something stupid. Something more stupid.

Caz's fingers curl around hers on the bottle. Gillian startles. Arm twitching. The bottle rattles against the table as she reaches across to wrap her hands in Caz's hair. Kisses her, violent and the edge of the table jabbing into her stomach. Teeth and anger and Caz always, _always_ gives as good as she gets. It's one of the stupid things Gillian stupidly likes about her.

She pulls at Caz's hair, listens to her growl. Wants to make her bleed.

"I hate this shirt," Caz says, panting and unattractively red, fingers twisted in Gillian's buttons.

"I hate your shirt," Gillian says, which is a lie. It's nothing Gillian would wear, fussy and posh like the woman wearing it, but it shows off Caz's tits spectacularly. Gillian shimmies. Helps Caz pull her shirt down her arms, turns her attention to pulling Caz's jumper up and over her head once her own is splashed across the floor. Ignoring the creaks and moans of the house around them, the sound of steps probably another bloody ghost.

"I hate you both," the ghost--William, fuck--says. Caz pulls back so quickly her chair wobbles and creaks and drops her to the floor.

Laughter forces its way up and out of Gillian's mouth: it hurts, wild and uncontrollable, and she can't stop laughing for the life of her. She drops to her knees. Fumbles around on the floor for her shirt. Finds Caz's instead; drapes it across Caz's chest, covering her frankly indecent bra. Spots a bit of tartan peeking out from beneath Caz's arse and tugs at it, "Oi, budge over," as Caz glares at her and refuses to move.

"Uh," William says, moments or decades later, Caz still unmoving and pale on the floor, "Should I call 999?"

 

3.

Gillian picks at the dry patch of skin near her elbow. Scratches until it bleeds. Celia's going on about some nonsense or another, Gillian stopped paying attention three glasses back, loud enough to wake the dead.

Caz drops down next to her on the floor, a bottle in each hand. "Here, take," she says, passing them to Gillian while she tries to sit down without toppling over.

Gillian snorts, picturing her going arse over tea kettle, skirt tearing in the process. Busies herself opening the first bottle--"should've guessed that's where the corkscrew went to," Raff says from across the room--while Caz settles her skirt around her to keep from flashing the whole lot of them. Gillian flips him off, and Celia catches it: face gone sour and disapproving before she turns away.

Caz is just passed tipsy, soft and leaning half against Gillian where they sit. Gillian takes a long swallow of wine that's probably worth more than everything she's owned in her entire life combined. "s'good," she says, pressing the bottle into Caz's empty hand.

"Ta." Caz necks from the bottle, and Gillian tries not to stare at the line of her throat as she swallows. Feels her face go hot, flushing, and closes her eyes. Listens to Celia going on about, "Alan's a brilliant director, as it turns out, he whole troupe absolutely adores him," and the kids all arguing about Town's chances in the Prem. She zones out a bit, in all honesty, feeling warm and content with her crazy family all around her.

Caz, the bint, presses closer and closer, resting her head against Gillian's shoulder. Sure to exhale right where her breath puffs against the skin near Gillian's ear, just where Caz bloody well knows Gillian likes to be kissed.

Gillian holds herself completely still. Slowly opens her eyes, just enough to spot Raff squinting at her from across the room. The moment he twigs, twitching and halfway between laughter and a stroke, as Caz's hand slides past Gillian's knee to her thigh. As she reaches for the bottle that's somehow back to resting between Gillian's legs, as Gillian tries half-heartedly to slap her away.

He lifts his can at her in a threatening toast--"later," she mouths, tilting her head at her dad and hoping he gets that she doesn't want to get into, well, anything with him and his bloody heart in the room--and drinks until it's well past empty.

She closes her eyes again. Lets their voices wash over her like a particularly vicious wave, or a killer shark. A whole family of them, hell-bent on revenge, the water dangerous and filled with blood. Caz asks if there's any more of her poncy cheese left. Raf laughs, says "Not any more," and she can see him popping the last bit of it in his mouth in the sound of Caz's appalled reaction.

 

4.

John smirks. Caz's face is bright red, glowing with embarrassment and bloody righteous fury, the color going all the way down to her matching red toenails. It's glorious, is what it is, and John opens his mouth to say something sure to be one half obnoxious and the other half pathetic.   

"Out," Gillian says. It feels like a growl, rough and scraping her vocal chords. "You breathe one word of this to, to a single soul, and I'll-"

He closes his mouth and steps back into the corridor. Probably more afraid of Caz and her headteacher glare (which, _fuck_ , that shouldn't be so hot, but knowing that doesn't stop Gillian pressing her thighs together) than anything Gillian could threaten, but he's leaving and that's what matters. His hand freezes at the edge of the bedroom door, and he smirks again. Pushes the door so it's almost, not quite, closed and walks away bloody whistling some bullshit song.

"Wanker," Gillian mumbles as she climbs out of the bed. A quick run to the door to close the door properly, turn the lock and check it. _Cold cold cold_ a steady beat running through her head, hopping from one foot to the other until she jumps back onto the bed.

She pulls the duvet up from where it's half pooled on the floor. Up over their heads: an illusion of privacy in soft down and pilling blue cotton. Turns on her side to face Caz, leans in to kiss her. Nips at her mouth, kisses along her check and down to her neck. Lazy and soft like the bedding, hands and mouths and the odd press of teeth to keep it from getting too saccharine.

Gillian loses time. Just feels, and feels some more, with an occasional break to wonder where the hell Caz learned to do _that_. And then Caz rolls them over so she's on top. The duvet twists uncomfortably, and they shove at it until they're free. Caz smiles down at Gillian, all predator, and wraps her hands around Gillian's wrists. Makes a show of lifting Gillian's arms over her head, of pressing them against the mattress. Likes to think she's in charge of things, does Caz, and Gillian doesn't mind letting her think as much when the mood hits her just right.

"Think you can keep them there?" Caz asks.

Gillian lets her grin turn sharp. "You'll be begging me to touch you ages before I move," she answers.

Caz kisses her. Careful, mouth closed, lips barely touching. Daring Gillian to open her mouth in return, daring Gillian to move her arms and pull Caz closer. Gillian smiles. Rests her head back against the pillow and dares Caz to do her worst.

 

5. 

So _Caz can kiss_. Telly mumbling in the background, Flora quiet and probably up to something dangerous upstairs. Every so often Caz calls out an answer--incredulous when the participants on the television don't know the whatsis-point of some chemical equation or another, eyes rolling when Gillian tries to kiss her silent again--competitive swot that she is.

"Idiots," Caz murmurs, and Gillian licks into her mouth before she can finish the inevitable rant about decreasing standards in British universities and the Americanization of academia or whatever the fuck she's on about this week. Caz moans, hand toying with the hem of Gillian's shirt. Flirting with the skin of Gillian's stomach. Gillian squirms, hot and buzzing with the heat of it, presses Caz down against the cushions of the sofa.

The television drones on. Caz laughs, arms catching in the fabric of Gillian's shirt as she pulls it up, joyous and sexy. Gillian doesn't understand this, can't wrap her head around this thing they keep falling into, but she stretches her arms up to aid Caz in the pursuit of getting her kit off.

Caz's hands go directly to Gillian's tits. Push the cups of her bra down, straps tickling her upper arms, and the shits for brains on this stupid quiz show don't know who made _The Third Man_. Caz mouths her way down Gillian's chest, biting and snapping when Gillian squirms.

"Carol Reed," Gillian finally says, unable to help herself, distracted and irrationally turned on all at once, "Bloody pillocks, what are they fucking teaching you in those Oxbridge prat schools?"

Caz freezes. Mouth open against Gillian's skin. Her entire body begins to shake against Gillian's, silent laughter suddenly breaking open. Loud enough Gillian worries they'll wake Flora, loud enough to make her listen for noise coming from upstairs. Which is when the front door opens instead, Celia and Gillian's dad just behind her, "Hello Caroline, just stopping--"

Caz snorts. Laughs even harder, wrapping herself awkwardly around Gillian while they both scramble to look for her discarded shirt. Flora starts wailing; the sound echoing between upstairs and the baby monitor on the counter.

"My eyes," Celia says, and Gillian almost expects her to break into a soliloquy straight out of Shakespearean AmDram, but she just keeps sputtering monosyllabically. "I can't, you just," over and over as she voices her distress.

Gillian glances over to make sure her dad's still standing--oh god, she'll never forgive herself for shocking him into another heart attack--and says a quick prayer to every bloody god she can think of that he seems okay. Hand rubbing between Celia's shoulderblades, murmuring "It's fine, darling, I'm sure it's, it'll be okay" half in silence.

"Right," Caz says. She stands, hands awkwardly patting at her own clothes, like that'll bloody make a difference, then visibly comes to a decision. "You," she says, tossing Gillian her shirt, suddenly discovered under a throw, "Put that on. I'll just," and Flora wails like she's in on it, "Tend to her highness upstairs, be back in a-"

"Coward," Gillian says.

"I think I'm going to faint," Celia says. Arms waving, reaching, and voice wobbly and aimed to reach the back of the house. Dad's face goes white, eyes panicked, and Gillian freezes with her shirt half unbuttoned.

"Oh God," Caz says, and Gillian can see her eyes rolling even facing away from her, "Alan, help me walk her over to the sofa." Celia starts to swoon even more dramatically, pushing away from even the idea of the sofa, making noises about cleanliness and _is everything going dark_ and Caz leads her to a chair instead. Flora screaming like a banshee all the while.

Dad sits down next to Celia. Pulls her so she's resting against him, his arms patting and soothing, and he looks at Gillian like--

"Fuck," Gillian says.

"So how long's this been going on then," he asks in his best trying not to be disapproving tone.

\--like she's a changeling he's never quite managed to understand.

 

6.

"I am never, ever, fu-, fucking ever just picking up a few things for you when you're sick ever again," Gillian says. Or possibly shouts a bit. Caz winces and closes her eyes, hand dramatically poised at the bridge of her nose, and Gillian bites her tongue from mentioning how much she resembles Celia in the moment.

Caz tosses her tissue box nowhere near Gillian's head. It clatters emptily against an end table, the floor, a bloody cardboard tumbleweed. "You're shit at that," Gillian says, crossing the room to reclaim the box. It's bound for the bin, just one last tissue flapping around inside, so Caz really ought to be a bit more grateful Gillian was about to be ordered to the chemists to restock her supplies.

She drops the shopping bag on the sofa next to Caz. Backs out of the line of fire.

Caz sniffles. Mumbles what's either a thank you or a fuck you, however Gillian chooses to interpret it. Rolls over onto her back and coughs pathetically. Like something out of La Boheme, all drama and screeching and acting like she's about to kick it.

"You're welcome," Gillian says. Pointedly.

"Ta," Caz says. She's a bitch when she's sick. Even more than her bog standard day-to-day level of bitchiness, that terrible snottiness Gillian slowly found herself harboring an angry fondness for at some point.

"Oh, bloody," Gillian says. She sits down on the end of the sofa, balanced on the edge to avoid Caz's feet, and leans over to pull off her shoes. Once down to her socks, she pushes at Caz's legs, "Budge over," and climbs up to rest between Caz and the sofa back.

"You'll get sick," Caz says.

"Right, like you weren't sneezing on me all last night," Gillian says. She curls up against Caz, arm around her middle, finally warming up after a day spent outside in the rain and damp. Caz is like a hot water bottle, probably because of fever, and Gillian kicks a leg over to hold her there.

"Well, don't blame me when you wake up with a scratchy throat in the morning," Caz says, waspish and something like caring underneath the sting. Gillian closes her eyes. Tries not to think too hard about any of this.

Caz presses her hand against the back of Gillian's. Nudges until their fingers tangle, sweaty and calloused and too fucking familiar; Gillian knows the curve of Caz's middle finger, the paper cut from too much admin, the way her thumb bends back like something out of a circus act. "And don't even think about nicking my Lemsip," Caz says, halfway around a yawn.

"And who bought that, I ask you," Gillian answers. Caz grumbles, rubs her thumb against Gillian's, and doesn't respond. "Bloody ungrateful you are," Gillian continues. "You're lucky I"--a pause, her tongue tripping over itself, the panic of what she almost said stuck in her throat--"I put up with you," she says, in an admittedly inspired finish.

Caz's hand goes slack in Gillian's. Her breath rattles and whistles; Gillian glances up and is unsurprised at her closed eyes, tilted neck. She's going to be a bear in the morning: growling about sore necks and aching muscles and _how dare you let me fall asleep like that, why didn't you wake me_. Glorious and fierce.

Gillian rolls her eyes at herself. At the pair of them. Tries to make herself comfortable, squashed between Caroline's snoring self and the sofa back, her mind furious and churning with ridiculous feelings all over the place.

She closes her eyes. Resigns herself to a long uncomfortable night without sleep.

  



End file.
